


A Lovely Trick

by twoandfour



Category: Actor RPF, Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, British Actor RPF, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Tomki - Fandom, frostpudding - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandfour/pseuds/twoandfour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my attempt at the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Thirty days of the Tom and Loki that occupy my brain. I am screwed. And so are they. </p><p>Warnings will change by chapter. Please check.</p><p>(Title taken from: "A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous." -Ingrid Bergman)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1- Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Unapologetic fluff, little bit of blood. No smut, yet. But give 'em a break, guys, they just met. :)

Tom whistled merrily, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, as he exited his cab. As per usual, he'd had the cabbie pull round the back of his building. While he did sincerely adore his fans right back, he thought it best to take precautions when it came to the location of his home. After a long day of shooting or meetings or press, it was lovely to be able to sneak in through the service entrance by the skip, slip unnoticed through his flat's front door, and unwind.

As he approached the service door, he smiled a smile to the night, fondly anticipating a hot shower, something mindless on telly, and maybe a couple fingers of good single malt. Maybe two. It was warranted tonight, he thought, considering how muddied and bloodied he'd been all day, fighting the Battle of Agincourt. Well... acting at fighting it, anyway. But even though he hadn't actually killed anyone or lost a host of men, the physicality required of him and the empathy he'd poured into the character had taken it out of him. He was physically tired, and a bit emotionally drained. 

Of course, in Tom's mind, that was no reason not to whistle merrily.

He gave the area around the skip a once-over (it never hurt to be cautious) and placed his hand on the door's handle. He had turned it halfway when his brain caught up with what his eyes had supplied. He swallowed, and turned his head back, squinting in the dim light at the ground.

There, in half-shadow, lay a prostrate figure, orange sodium-glow reflecting dully off the bits of metal attached to its clothing. Heart beginning to beat a little faster, Tom narrowed his eyes even more, hand still frozen on the doorknob. The bits of metal looked an awful lot like buckles and plates. Familiar buckles and plates. The figure was long and lithe and encased in... leather. Green and black. With decorative metal. And long, black hair that glinted blue.

Tom closed his eyes and shook his head. Surely not. Wasn't possible. Too many months spent inside the head of the poor soul had finally caught up with him, and the exhaustion of the day tipped him over the edge. Obviously, that had to be it. And yet, when he opened his eyes and looked again, the figure was still there.

Slowly, he pulled his hand away, walked over to where the figure lay, and sat down on the concrete. For a moment, he just stared, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, only to be met by the same sight. Then, gingerly, he reached out a hand and poked at it, blinking a bit at the shock of finding it very solid. 

A last desperate thought shouted itself through the haze: this could well be someone in costume, someone who'd managed to find out where he lived, and was playing a trick. Praying that this was the case (because that, at least, he could deal with), he reached underneath the figure's jaw and turned the face towards his own.

And then immediately scrambled back on all fours, like a crab, breathing like he'd just run a marathon. 

That face. His face. Like looking in a bizarre, impossible mirror. 

As he sat blinking, the prone form stirred and groaned. Tom suddenly found a pair of disoriented but unmistakably green eyes turned on his. He gasped. "L-Loki?"

Loki rolled his eyes, attempting and failing to bitterly smirk. "Wonderful..." he hitched, pushing up on his hands, only to fall once more, face-first, to the ground.

Right, thought Tom, sparing just one more tiny pang of loss for his sanity, before wrapping long arms around the figure and hauling it up to semi-standing. He managed to open the service door with one hand, the other grasping round Loki's middle as the god listed perilously, and haul him into the tiny lift that would bring them to his floor.

As the lift crawled upward, Loki threatened to collapse again, but Tom slapped him lightly round the cheeks, consequences be damned. "No... No. Don't- not here. Once we're inside, you can pass out all you want, but so help me, if you do it in this lift, I will fucking walk away."

Finally, the lift reached Tom's floor and the doors opened. He half-dragged Loki through the front door, bypassing the living room entirely, and dropped him onto his own bed. "Stay," he said. Mostly to himself. Probably. 

He returned to the room bearing a large bowl full of very hot water, a rag, some bandages, and medical tape. As carefully as he could, he removed Loki's armor, piece by piece, and set it aside. Every so often, the god would grasp at him, or attempt to curl in on himself, and Tom would be forced to pry barely weakened fingers off of his arm, or press the body back onto the mattress. 

When he finally had Loki as naked as possible and was able to take a good look, he gasped, tears springing to his eyes. There were a few scratches- barely a bit of blood- but the bruising was... chest to calf, enormous, purpling bruises covered most of Loki's body. Tom could make out the imprints of both hands and boots. And other implements. The indentations of spikes. 

And then there were, upon closer inspection, the remnants of what looked like stitches. Along his spine. Across his belly. Raw, red marks dotted the skin around his lips. Tom swallowed back the bile that bit at his throat. This wasn't unknown. He knew the stories that this skin told. He may not have ever expected them to be real... but having discovered they were, he could at least do his part to help.

And so he proceeded to wash Loki's body with the rag, and rub ointment where he could, and place bandages where he could reach. 

When Loki awoke for a time, he fed the god spoonfuls of broth. "This is... disgusting." "Shut up. You'll thank me in the morning."

And when he'd done all he could think to do, and had Loki situated as best he could, he crawled into bed beside him with a grunt of exhaustion. 

Loki, awake and feeling somewhat better at this point, turned to the Midgardian, fully intending to punish him for his presumption and kick him out of these moderately comfortable chambers, and leave him to his ridiculously sentimental self in the morning, perhaps in a trail of destruction and fire. 

But then he caught sight of a pair of sleepy blue eyes. Eyes that hurt for how tired they were. But that still looked upon him with wonder. Insight. Eyes that knew things. That knew things that Loki burned to know. HAD to know. How had this mortal known what to do for him? How, actually, had this mortal even seen him at all? And how was he still here, now, staring at him as if he was a lifeline?

Deciding he'd figure it all out in the morning- after all, this had been a very strange and painful day- Loki took Tom's hand in his own and whispered "sleep" across his knuckles. 

And they did.


	2. Day 2- Cuddling somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki loves cuddling, whether he wants to admit it, or not. Tom loves consensual cuddling, but at this point, is too tired to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some dubiously-consensual cuddling. That's the best kind, right?

Loki awoke to a pair of lean, strong arms wrapped round his midsection, and warm legs spooned against his lower half. Two furnace-hot feet enveloped his, and the breath that tickled his ear was gentle and sweet. He stiffened and reached around, feeling for a throat, abruptly shucking this assumptive bed-mate onto the floor with an insulted scowl. 

A dull smack, like a head colliding with a wall, and then a groan. Loki peered over the bed's edge, delighted through his haze. But the bed's other occupant simply stood-albeit a bit unsteadily- and brushed himself off. A pair of eyes like Asgard's daytime skies regarded him, one eyebrow at an immediately recognizable half-mast, maddeningly knowing smile playing about the lips.

"You're awake, then, I see." Voice like honey. Long limbs preparing to walk away.

Loki blinked, then gathered himself, pulling the covers higher round his naked frame, and with an unholy scowl, hissed, "Yes."

He rose to his knees on the bed and summoned forth every ounce of intimidation, every bit of terrifying, bone-weakening, soul-harrowing power he had left, and hissed, "How dare you, mortal. You think to sway me with mercy? To control me with compassion?" The latter word he spat. "Your actions are but naught! I will destroy you. I will show you the futility of--"

"I'm making breakfast. Do you like your eggs fried or scrambled?"

Loki paused, a bit disarmed. "... What?"

Tom rolled his eyes and disinterestedly fiddled with the tie round his waist. "Your eggs, darling. Fried, or scrambled?"

Loki narrowed his eyes. "Fried. But entirely yellow and runny at the center. And no brown around the edges. Should you dare to serve me substandard food, Midgardian--" But the mortal had already walked away. Infuriated, Loki made to follow, then realized how utterly naked he was. The mortal had stripped him of his armor. Of his undergarments! How could he have allowed himself to become so vulnerable? That a mortal could uncover him so completely? He kicked himself mentally, spiritually; there was no excuse. This was weakness, pure and simple. There could be no justification for this. 

After all, what could one hope to explain, be required to justify, having been beaten and cast out and left for dead? Especially when one likely deserved it?

But, eyeing himself more thoroughly, he noticed the bandages on his few wounds. The winding, flesh-colored brace around his ribs. He recalled, through the clouds of his memory, a warm rag drawn across his skin. Whispered oaths of vengeance, fingertips laced with mercy, spoons full of warmth and sustenance against his   
lips. Long limbs wound around his, despite fear, despite exhaustion, seeking only to comfort and heal.

No one... No one except his (adoptive) mother had done any of those things for him, since his youth. And she didn't count. Did she count? No, she didn't. Not yet. Maybe never. At least, not yet.

But this mortal, this foolish Midgardian, had done it. Had seen him naked, brought him to nakedness, and had done his best to help heal what he found, there. With no questions asked. And the offer of food at the end of it, after having been tossed against a wall out of the comfort of his bed.

Who was this fool? 

Tom stumbled back in, carrying a tray. He set it down in front of Loki. On it was a mug of hot cocoa, a glass of orange juice, and a plate holding a few slices of beautifully browned and buttered toast, and two perfectly fried eggs- bulging yellow orbs at the center, edges delicate and white. Then he flopped down on the bed and gave the god a somewhat expectant look.

"Well?" he said. "As you ordered, your highness."

Loki, more concerned with obeying the orders of his stomach, ignored the Midgardian's high tone. For the time being. He sipped at the juice- what a lovely, bright flavor that broke across his tongue; like concentrated daylight- and took a tentative gulp of the "cocoa"- gods, why in Hel didn't they have this on Asgard- before using the tines of the fork to break open the skins of the eggs and allow the yolks- liquid sunshine- to spill over the buttered bread. 

Glorious, this breakfast. Delicious and decadent. Nurturing. Loki sopped up every drop, delicately ensuring that every morsel made it into his mouth, before breathing deeply and declaring himself finished. Tom smiled a sunny smile and made to move the tray away. Loki caught his wrist and turned burning eyes and flaring nostrils upon him.

"You cared for me. Tended me. Fed me. Why?" he inquired, with a growl.

Tom smiled an infuriatingly knowing smile. "Because you deserved it," he said. And before Loki could process those words, Tom had wrapped his arms around him yet again, and dragged them both down to the bed. 

Loki fumed. "Midgardian! I am a god! Release--"

"Shh." Tom held him tighter. "Trying to sleep."


	3. Day 3- Watching a Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... In which balance is discussed, furniture is threatening, and popcorn is described as "juicy".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It *had* to be a Christmas movie. It just did. For reasons.

Tom retrieved the steaming bag of popcorn from the microwave and poured it into a bowl. He popped a single fluffy yellow piece into his mouth and smiled. Extra butter. Greasy, glistening butter. Just the way he liked it. No self-respecting cinephile would have popcorn any other way. 

He might resort to romaine-and-green-apple smoothies to keep up his energy during very physical shoots (another smile accompanied by a fond chuckle as he recalled Loki's rather dramatic reaction the first time he'd been introduced to the concoction), and he did eat healthfully most of the time, but when it came to popcorn, he felt there were certain standards that must be adhered to.

Namely, coating the fluffy little things in as much cinema-style "butter"-like-substance as was humanly possible. Tom usually aimed for super-saturation.

Bowl in hand, he sauntered back into the sitting room, where Loki was holding court on the sofa, idly flicking through television channels with the remote. On his face sat the typical imperious scowl which meant "bored". 

Tom set the bowl on the coffee table and flopped down next to him. 

He watched the perpetually changing screen with amusement.

After about a minute, he ventured, "Nothing good on telly, I take it?"

Loki blinked sullenly. "You know, for the amount of time, effort, and currency the people of your realm hemorrhage into your so-called 'entertainment', you'd think at least some of it would actually be entertaining."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Come on. You've found plenty of things you've liked. We've watched A Clockwork Orange a frankly disturbing amount of times." He frowned, beginning to ponder just how disturbing.

Loki smiled wistfully. "Yes, I do rather quite enjoy that one. As well as that other one where practically everyone dies violently at the end."

"Hamlet?"

"No..."

"The Departed?"

"Yes."

Tom snorted and shook his head. "Yes, well, I think perhaps- for the sake of balance- we should think about watching something slightly less... you."

Loki turned to him with a malicious glint in his eye, his voice a low purr that set alarms pinging through Tom's entire nervous system. "In case you were thinking of trying to make me endure another of those maudlin, florid children's films, may I remind you that just this morning we agreed the bedroom could use another bookcase."

Tom cleared his throat and blushed, frowning nervously. A few weeks back, he had lured Loki into watching Lilo and Stitch. About midway through the film, Loki had picked him up by his throat, hurled him against a wall, then turned him into an anthropomorphic curio cabinet and disappeared for three days. 

"No, no, of course I wasn't thinking of that." Tom shifted nervously. 

"Of course you weren't," Loki snorted, turning to the popcorn bowl and sorting through the top layer for the juiciest bits. Tom scowled but decided against protesting.

He mentally pored over his DVD collection for a moment. Then his face lit up as an idea struck him. He strode over to the shelves where his movie collection was stored and plucked out a case, beaming mischievously.

Loki, oddly, always got a little nervous when Tom's face did that. "What?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously as Tom bent to put the disc in the player and change the television's settings.

He sat back on the sofa, slightly closer to Loki this time (though Loki, oddly, chose not to mention it, this time), and started the film.

"Home Alone," he said. "It's a Christmas movie. It's got wholesome sentimentality AND gratuitous violence. Mostly in the form of tricks. Best of both worlds, really."

Forty five minutes later, Loki was smirking worryingly and had even laughed aloud a few times, though, if pressed, he'd never admit it.

As he slid an arm over the back of the sofa, resting it a hair's breadth from Tom's shoulders (just to stretch it out, mind you), he decided that perhaps additional book storage in the bedroom could wait.

For tonight, anyway.


	4. Day 4- On a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Telephone calls, rubber duckies, and ritual bathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not technically "on a date" here, but getting ready for one, so it counts.

"Yes, what?"

Tom sighed. "Loki... We've been over this. When you answer the phone, you're supposed to say 'hello'."

There was a derisive snort on the other end of the line. "I shall reserve niceties for when I'm not being inconsiderately interrupted in the middle of important tasks."

Tom wrinkled up his eyebrows and checked his watch. "Our dinner reservations aren't till eight. It's only three. What could you possibly be doing that's so important?" 

He sipped at his smoothie in mild consternation.

"Bathing in the blood of a kid."

He ejected his smoothie out onto his shirt. 

"Jesus... okay. One, I sincerely hope- for the love of all that is good and holy- that by 'kid' you mean 'young goat'. And two, since that absolutely must be what you mean, for both our sake's, what the bloody hell are you doing bathing in the blood of a goat?!"

Loki sniffed airily. "Well, I assumed all the fuss you've gone to for this particular outing signified the beginning of our courtship."

Tom blinked. Swallowed. Sopped smoothie off his shirt. "You wouldn't be wrong, although that's a rather formal way of putting it... Um, doesn't quite explain, though-"

"You are so incredibly thick, sometimes, mortal." Tom could practically hear Loki's condescending expression. "If we are to court, there are certain rituals that must be performed. As you gave me barely any notice, I was forced to skip past the herb smudging and anointing with oils and go straight to the purification through blood. And you're lucky I had time enough to do that," he said, in a voice saturated with long-suffering.

Tom nodded slowly, thumb and forefinger circling his facial hair. "I... I see. I believe I have a question or two. If you don't mind. That is."

"Proceed," replied Loki in a businesslike clip which was proceeded by a sluggish splash that made Tom's stomach curl in a bit.

He inhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, squinching up his eyes to calm the twitch that had recently presented itself, trying to organize his inquiries by order of importance, and then wondering if there was even a point to asking them at all. Curiosity finally won out, so he soldiered on.

"Okay. First question. Where did you acquire this goat, and how much trouble am I going to be in with whomever you acquired it from?"

Loki huffed. "You wound me, Thomas. You know I respect your desire to abide by the laws of your realm... The kid was purchased through legal means using valid currency." He actually managed to sound a bit hurt. 

Tom didn't believe him for a second, but since Loki's words seemed to mean 'this won't come back to bite you on the ass, I made sure' somewhere he between the lines, he decided not to press the issue.

"Next question." Splash.

Tom's face went from slightly flushed to a somewhat unbecoming green. "Right. Next question. Did you slaughter the goat in the flat?" Trying valiantly though he was to be brave, his words faltered a tiny bit near the end.

"Of course." 

The slightly unbecoming shade of green deepened to an outright unflattering one.

"Where else was I to perform the act? On the street? You needn't worry your delicate sensibilities so, Thomas. I was quick and clean and the kid was dispatched in the kindest manner possible."

"Could you please stop calling it a kid!"

"But that's what-"

"For God’s sake, just call it a goat!"

"Alright! Odin's beard, man. Calm yourself."

There was a pause during which Loki splashed about merrily while Tom made a concerted effort to control his breathing.

"Thomas, does your squeeze-y duck-shaped plaything have a name?"

"IF YOU SO MUCH AS TOUCH MY DUCKY, I WILL RIP YOUR HEART OUT THROUGH YOUR EYE SOCKET."

Silence.

"... So, it doesn't have a name, then?"

"I'm going to kill you. I may die trying, but it will have been fun."

Loki was quiet a moment. Then he snorted once, twice... and then erupted in cackling peals of whole-bodied laughter.

Tom held a hand to his forehead.

"You're not really bathing in the blood of a goat, are you."

"Of course not, you idiot," Loki managed through sobs of mirth. "I've slutted it up all over the Nine Realms for thousands of years, and you think I need some sort of purifying soak just to have a meal with you?" Laughter afresh.

"I hate you." 

"No, you don't," Loki said fondly and a bit breathlessly.

"Do you want to continue to test that?" Tom smirked a little, despite himself.

"You like me and you know it."

Tom shook his head and sighed. "I do, at that. Absolutely no idea why."

Loki chuckled. "So, dinner at eight, then?"

"Yes, at eight. I'm coming home now, though."

"I shall see you soon, then. Oh, and Thomas?"

"... Yes?"

"Do mind the dove carcasses on the kitchen table. I'm afraid I made a bit of a mess."

"LOKI-"

Dial tone.


	5. Day 5- Kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses worthy of these two.

Tom kissed Loki's eyebrows. Then the lids of his eyes, the corners where his laugh-lines gathered, the bridge of his nose, and the tip of it. He pressed his thinned mouth to the narrow upsweep of Loki's reluctant smile, then settled his lips at his chin, sucking a tiny bit at its prominence, and tasting upwards toward his jaw. Loki moaned, despite himself. 

"Thomas," Loki gasped, at a loss, gripping said mortal's clothes, torn between pulling him closer and throwing him off entirely. 

"Shhh," Tom responded. "Don't move," he said, more a plea than a demand. It was the only reason Loki complied.

Loki felt Tom's long, dexterous fingers idle for a moment at the top of his shirt, and then rapidly undo the rest of the buttons, like an adventurous schoolboy fearing a reprimand. Warm, calloused fingertips hesitated, and then brushed over Loki's pronounced clavicle, outward across his shoulders, and down the roped, ridged muscles of his arms. Loki stared. Tom didn't breathe a word, a sigh, a sound. He simply shuddered under the sensation, steel eyes fluttering, breath turning to lead.

His pink mouth stood just open, and he licked his lips just so before murmuring, from under hooded eyes, "You're so beautiful..." 

Loki could no longer bear it. 

"I hate you," he growled, as he scooped his idiot closer, and pulled his lips to slot against his own. He pressed in hard, unforgiving, lips and teeth smashing painfully. Nipped and bit and grazed. He tasted the copper tang of blood and knew it wasn't his. For a moment, he cherished Tom's shock; his unwillingness, and the way he pushed at Loki's shoulders. 

Then he realized that what he had mistaken for unwillingness was eagerness. Tom wasn't pushing him away... He was grasping at him. Trying to pull him closer. The racing pulse was... want? And he wasn't pulling away from Loki's mouth in order to hide or heal the cut. He was tonguing it. Sucking it. Drawing blood to the surface and pushing it back into... Pushing it back into Loki's mouth. 

Forcing him- willing him- to taste it. And pleading with him for more. 

His mouth, face, whole body pressed up and against his and begging for more.

Loki pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him away, panting, eyebrows knit in consternation. 

"What the hel do you think you're doing?" he hissed, eyes wide.

"What I want," Tom replied, easily.

Loki squeezed his eyes shut and scoffed. "You think you- I would HURT you, you insufferable- You forced upon me a taste of your blood, knowing that I am a mon-"

"Don't say that word," Tom whispered, laying a finger against Loki's lips. "Just... don't. It's not the truth." He gazed up into Loki's eyes, which were burning with and not-yet fading from ruby-red, and sighed. "You're no more one of those than I am," he said. He ran a thumb along the plane of Loki's jaw.

Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips back into Loki's again. Loki stiffened, then softened, then molded his lips to meet Tom's. They sighed. Tom grinned into the kiss, triumphant, flicking his tongue out to swipe at the bow of Loki's mouth, eliciting a grunt before pulling back slightly, and smiling even wider, eyes gleaming.

"You like that," he teased, stating the apparent obvious.

Loki huffed through a shiver that he fought to hide. "I tolerated that, fool," he snorted. But his fond smirk gave him away. Tom pushed the tip of his tongue out through his teeth and laughed. "Alright," he shrugged. "I guess that means I'll have to try harder next time."

"Yes," Loki retorted. "You really should make a more valiant effort," he sniffed, airily.

"I will," promised Tom.

"You should!" reiterated Loki.

Tom smirked. "I promise."


	6. Day 6- Wearing Each Other's Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lack of stealth, unpleasant memories, silk panties. I'm not even sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silk panties are hot and you know it.

Tom made as much noise as possible unlocking the door and making his way back into the flat. It wasn't that Loki didn't like to be sneaked up upon. It was more that it was utterly impossible to do so, but that even a modicum of stealth would be taken as a challenge that was met in sometimes less than pleasant ways.

As he toed off his shoes and noisily hung his keys on their hook, Tom shook his head as if to bat away one particularly mortifying memory involving conjured chickens and a number of his books.

He'd made enough noise to wake the reluctant dead, he thought, but as a precaution, called out, "Loki? S'just me. I'm home."

Nothing. 

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious and suddenly a trifle worried.

"Loki?" he called, again, stepping further into the room and projecting his voice. He waited a beat.

Still nothing. Odd...

The brat prince didn't go out on his own much, seeing as how Midgard was "dreadfully boring" and all, and Tom hadn't seen anything terribly leading on the news, so that couldn't be it. He supposed for a moment that outside forces (Odin or Thor) could have enacted upon Loki to take him away (to Asgard), but in that case, he knew that Loki would've left him some obvious sign. And- glancing around the flat one more time just to be sure- there was nothing. 

Concerned, brows furrowed, heart beating an erratic tattoo, he made his way down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door. Speaking before he looked, he had just enough time to say, "Loki, are you in h..." before it died in his throat. 

There, doing nothing less than preening in front of a propped-against-the-wall, full-length mirror, was a very lovely and half- naked Loki, wearing nothing but a pair of cream-colored silk panties with lace ruffles at the creases of his (pale but spectacularly rounded) cheeks. Tom's ex-girlfriend's cream-colored silk panties with lace ruffles. The ones he almost, sort-of, mostly forgot he'd buried in one drawer or another, to be found one day and rhapsodized over briefly before tossing in a bin in order to move forward.

Tom toyed with the idea of being angry. Or at least hurt. Maybe victimized. After all, Loki had obviously pawed through some very personal items to come up with this one, and had then seen no problem at all with appropriating them for his own use.

He tried. He really did. But the sight of the raven-haired god, all subtle definition and pale planes, dusky nipples perking in the air-conditioning and... and thick, blood-heavy cock straining the structural integrity of the silk, causing the seams to reveal their stitches... well. 

Loki smirked in the mirror just a tiny beat before Tom involuntarily gasped, wide-eyed, fists clenched at his sides.

"Found these. I do hope you don't mind. I honestly don't know why the womenfolk hoard these to themselves. They feel wonderful. So smooth." He arched his back, pouting slightly into the mirror and pushing his hips forward, filling out the delicate silk shell even more obscenely.

One of Tom's hands floundered behind him for a moment before the door (mercifully) clicked shut. He swallowed.

Loki rolled his eyes and smirked. "Oh, honestly. Garments are garments. They're made of fabric and thread- they don't define gender or sex. Don't look so scandalized." He beckoned Tom with a crook of his fingers. 

Tom swallowed again, but made his way forward. "I'm not... scandalized," he defended. "Don't care who's wearing what, really." His voice trailed off as he reached where Loki was. "Just that... You look... Um."

Blue eyes flicked uncertainly back to jade ones, and Tom's hands hovered just above Loki's waist before the fingers curled back in on themselves.

Loki snorted, but his voice was all tender heat as he clasped Tom's hands down around his silk-clad hips and whispered, "Yes?"

Emboldened slightly at having been led to this place, Tom inhaled sharply and then squeezed the flesh at Loki's hips- fabric slipping gloriously beneath his fingertips, surprisingly lovely amount of fat and skin plumping back into position after having been momentarily displaced- then pressed a hungry mouth to the shell of Loki's ear.

He licked up into the hollow of it with the sharpened point of his tongue, then bit down on the lobe hard enough to send a message. 

"Yes," he growled. 

(to be continued)


End file.
